The Simoqin Prophecies

by Samit Basu

He practically pushed Kirin and Maya out of the shop, and banged the door shut. They could hear him locking and barring the door. Then they looked around them, and saw why.

  Lost Street was practically empty, which meant Big Trouble. Usually it meant gang warfare, or an asur-human brawl, or an International Friendly football match in Kol Stadium. One way or another, when Lost Street was empty, it meant serious injuries all around and a plague of tax-collectors and money-lenders’ enforcers the next morning.

  The street was empty, that is, except for the ring of asurs that had formed around Spikes, who was standing in the middle, a stunned asur at his feet.

  They weren’t your average city-bred black-leather-clad vroomer-imitating I-clean-sewers-now-but-what-I’d-really-like-to-be-is-a-blacksmith kind of asur. They were a little taller, about human chest-high. Their bodies were covered with dirty, straggly white hair, and their bloated pinkish-grey bellies protruded from under their chain-mail vests. City asurs usually dyed their body hair in bright colours. Hooba, for instance, was green. But the ones around Spikes were danavs from the mountains of Imokoi. They had vacant pupil-less grey eyes, long pointy ears, big jaws, thick drooling lips and small, sharp teeth. Their claws were long and grey–the city asurs always painted theirs. The danavs wore helmets with horns on either side, Skuan fashion. They yelled challenges at Spikes and pointed daggers or spears at him.

  To make up for the emptiness of the streets, the skies were full. Vroomer gangs were hovering above them, yelling encouragement and abuse. Like vultures, they always somehow knew where the big fights would be.

  Most doors on the street were closed. All the windows were, however, open, and there were heads poking out of each. Living in Lost Street meant free entertainment all year round.

  Unless you were performing for this knowledgeable and faithful audience, in which case it usually meant very expensive treatment. If you survived.

  There were about thirty asurs around Spikes, more than enough to deal with any pashan. But then, was Spikes a pashan? Even Kirin didn’t know.

  The asurs hadn’t noticed Kirin and Maya yet. But the vroomers had. Pointing their vroomsticks at them, three zoomed down from the sky, hovering at eye level.

  ‘Tourist? Tourist? Ride for the lady, stick for the gents?’ enquired one, leering at Maya. All three of them were clad in black cowhide kurtas. Maya looked with interest at them. Their heads were shaved, with a single streak of hair down the middle. Their bodies were covered with tattoos, and were pierced in at least fifty places. On the bed of tattoos they had raised gardens of rings and studs, piercing every possible part of their bodies.

  ‘Now would be a good time to fly away,’ said Kirin to him.

  ‘Who asked the gents?’ said the vroomer, sticking out a very pierced tongue.

  ‘Don’t like his pents,’ commented another.

  ‘Will he the… um, lents?’ asked the third weakly, avoiding the reproachful looks of his comrades.

  Maya looked at them. She laughed aloud. Her laugh was deep and very, very loud. ‘You’re funny,’ she told them.

  The ring of asurs was beginning to inch a little closer to Spikes.

  ‘And very, very stupid,’ she continued.

  The vroomers pulled out their crossbows.

  Maya smiled and held out her hand. She thought about fire.

  With a little whump, a blue fireball appeared over her outstretched palm.

  The vroomers looked at it for a few seconds, then at Maya’s warm smile. ‘Spellbinder!’ roared one. They zoomed up to safety, amidst jeers and catcalls from the other vroomers.

  ‘If you’re thinking about saying anything about playing with fire, don’t,’ grinned Kirin. ‘Do you need anything, Spikes?’ he called.

  ‘I’m fine. They won’t be, though. Tell them.’

  ‘They speak a different language,’ called Hooba from a first-floor window behind them. ‘You’ll need an interpreter.’

  One of the asurs in the ring, a particularly ugly, bow-legged one, stepped forward. The rest fell silent. The leader shouted at Spikes.

  What did he say?’ Maya asked Hooba.

  ‘He seid, ‘Ell those who stend in the peth of the Glorious Revolution will be shown no mercy!’’

  ‘The Glorious Revolution? Is that a gang?’

  ‘No. It’s e glorious revolution. When esurs overthrow the yoke of human oppression.’

  ‘I see.’

  Spikes seemed unmoved. The leader looked at him, and decided he was standing in the path of the Glorious Revolution and should be shown no mercy. He barked out an order.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Maya.

  ‘He seid ‘Cherge!’’

  ‘What? Speak up.’

  ‘He seid ‘CHERGE!’’

  The asurs charged. And stopped.

  With a smooth, silken sound, Spikes had unsheathed his claws. They slid out of his hands, incredibly long, incredibly sharp. With little clicks, the spikes along his spine came out.

  The asurs looked at one another. Some took a step or two backwards. This wasn’t going the way it was supposed to. They’d picked on Spike thinking he was a short pashan. Fighting pashans wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were supposed to charge, fifteen at a time, jump on the pashan, bring him down to the ground and stab at the eyes and the joints. Claws and spikes weren’t in the script.

  ‘Put your claws in, Spikes. Play fair,’ said Kirin.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ grumbled Spikes.

  The leader yelled again.

  ‘ ‘Charge!’ again, right?’ asked Maya.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hooba.

  The asurs were evidently a little hard of hearing. They shuffled their feet uneasily. The leader couldn’t take it any more. He charged, his spear streaking towards Spikes’ head.

  Spikes swatted him with one hand. The asur flew several feet, hit a wall, landed and was still.

  Three more ran at him, screaming.

  Swish.

  Dhup.

  Swish swish.

  Dhup dhup.

  Another asur shouted.

  ‘Still ‘Charge!’?’ enquired Maya.

  ‘No. Thet wes ‘Flee!’’

  The asurs fled.

  There were hisses, jeers and disappointed shouts all over Lost Street. The vroomers zoomed off. Doors opened and business resumed. Everyone looked a little grouchy. The Big Fight had been a washout.

  Maya, Kirin and Spikes walked on.

  ‘What were we talking about?’

  ‘Going to meet my father.’

  ‘Where is he, anyway?’

  ‘I think he’s on Bolvudis island. He last wrote about six months ago.’

  ‘What’s Bolvudis like?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Let’s see these Untranslatable Books of yours – these are Danh-Gem’s books from Imokoi, right?’

  ‘Yes. Though they are, you know, Untranslatable. On the other hand, if you are the Special Toffee Prince of Simoqin, you’ll probably be able to read them magically. There’ll be a blinding light, and – ’

  ‘- and then you wake up in hospital with a mysterious bruise on your face. Let’s try these books anyway. If we can’t understand them, I can go to Bolvudis.’

  ‘We can go to Bolvudis.’

  An asur crouching in the dark shadows in an alley crept out as they passed, clutching a dagger. He ran up behind Spikes and leapt. Spikes never even turned around. His arm moved in a blur, there was a crack, and the asur ran, clutching his arm and yelping.

  ‘It’s been one of Spikes’ most peaceful visits to Lost Street,’ said Kirin. ‘Only six injuries, and no deaths.’

  ‘What do we do now? Frags again?’ enquired Maya.

  ‘What else is there?’

  Back at Hooba’s Emporium, Hooba cowered in the ruins of his counter, sweating profusely.

  ‘They were not my friends, your Highness,’ he stuttered. ‘They were customers. Good customers.’

  ‘That thing which fought my soldiers–what
was it? A pashan?’ came a voice out of the shadows.

  ‘I do not know, your Highness. I don’t think so. He’s too short, and he has claws and things. Also he speaks like a human.’

  ‘The Glorious Revolution is coming soon, Hooba. We will throw Kol down to the ground and rebuild the towers of Imokoi. Danh-Gem is coming. You city-born filth will have to take sides.’

  ‘I am your Majesty’s most faithful servant.’

  ‘We shall see, Hooba, we shall see. Maybe I will soon ask you to prove your loyalty.’

  ‘It will be an honour, your Highness. Your Highness, this store is my life’s work - ’

  ‘Mine now.’

  King Leer watched as his bodyguards rearranged Hooba’s Emporium, creating an accurate replica of the battle-ruined wastelands of Imokoi in mere minutes. Glorious Revolutions are nothing without that little touch of home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Identify yourself ’ rumbled Mati.

  ‘It’s me, Mati,’ said the Civilian, climbing down the steps to his chamber. She had brought Ojanus with her this time, and the amphisbaena was coiled around her head, its two heads standing out, like horns. ‘The key to the treasure-chamber, please.’

  Mati gave her a huge key and a small Alocactus pot, and Ojanus, who was not allowed inside the treasure-chamber, slithered off and wound itself lovingly around the golem.

  The treasure-chamber was packed with precious items. Gold, silver, pearls and precious stones of every shape, size and colour gleamed in the white light. There were weapons, armour, crowns, sceptres, artifacts and jewellery of every possible size, form and weight. Even the greatest dragon of all, Qianzai the magnificent, had never gathered this large a hoard.

  The Civilian walked to the middle of the room.

  ‘Are you awake, old friend?’

  ‘Yes,’ croaked the unwaba. The civilian looked quickly at the place where the sound came from, but the oldest chameleon could not be seen.

  ‘How are you? All right, but I sleep nearly all the time. Do the pearls taste good? Yes. There is something I need from you today, old friend. What is it? You know, old friend. Something important enough to spend this year’s visit on. I am in need. Yes, I know, but one has to ask for form’s sake,’ said the unwaba, who, being all-knowing, had the annoying habit of turning all conversations into soliloquies.

  The unwaba was the most powerful oracle-prophet-seer in the world, all the more powerful because no one except the rulers of Kol knew of his existence. His power was what kept him alive; not only was he frail (as a result of being as old as the world) but his habit of knowing all answers but falling asleep just before reaching the most important ones made him the most annoying oracle-prophet-seer in the world as well.

  ‘I’ll be brief, old friend,’ continued the unwaba, ‘Is Danh-Gem coming back? Yes, he is. Is Asvin the hero of the Simoqin prophecies? There is no real answer to that question, but bring Asvin to the Mirror and train him well, for there is much he has to destroy. How do I train him? You? You will not train him. The vaman and the spellbinder, the mountain and the forest. The leaves will flutter before they fall. Can I stop Danh-Gem’s return? No. Why? It’s very simple, really…’

  The unwaba, wherever he was, fell asleep. The Civilian stood in silence for some time, struggling not to roar in frustration. If she survived this year, she knew, she would be feeling the same impotent rage the next time she visited the unwaba. It was a very special rage, one that had been felt by many great rulers before Temat.

  The unwaba’s career as the world’s only colour-changing prophet had begun in Vrihataranya, where ha had spent a few centuries predicting the weather and explaining the food chain to ungrateful animals, who then went and ate or were eaten.

  The unwaba’s peaceful if pointless existence had been rudely disturbed by humans long before the Age of Terror. When Prince Amrit the Almighty, another younger Sun of Avranti, tired of explaining to the colonists from Ventelot that they could not civilize a land far older and richer than their own, had raised an army and driven the knights of Ventelot out of Avranti, there had been a huge battle on the edge of the Forest. The unwaba, annoyed at being woken up, for he had loved sleeping in cool shadows even then, had slipped out of his tree and made his way through the blood and gore to Amrit’s chariot. He had spoken reproachful words to Amrit, and the warrior prince of Avranti, assuming that the little voice he heard in his head was divine, had listened carefully. Amrit had stared at the dying and the dead around him and had been filled with remorse. He had burst into tears, thanked the gods for saving his soul and ordered his men to stop fighting and spend their lives in peaceful meditation and prayer.

  The soldiers of Avranti, obedient to a fault, had laid down their weapons down, and the knights of Ventelot, the few still left alive, had begun to butcher them. Amrit, however, thinking that the gods themselves had spoken to him, decided he would not fight. It was then that the unwaba, realizing he should have complained after the battle was over, spoke to Amrit again.

  The divine words Amrit heard on the battlefield were recorded in the most lyrical, moving epic poem ever written, the Why War. The poem went for as long as the average battle, was divided into four sections, and was regarded as a holy text in Avranti.

  What had actually happened was, the unwaba had said ‘Fight, idiot.’

  The tale had grown somewhat in the telling.

  The rest was quite literally history. Amrit had driven the armies of Ventelot back to Ventelot, driven the Psomedeans back to Psomedea, destroyed the Hudlumm hordes and established the Kingdom of Kol, which rapidly became the world’s cultural and financial capital based on some remarkably shrewd investment decisions. Amrit established the University of Enki, and, heeding the Voice of A God he heard from time to time, made peace with his neighbours (a peace that his neighbours were only too willing to keep, given Kol’s superb mightiest armies) and opened the gates of Kol to peace-loving (and luxury-loving) people from all over the world.

  The unwaba had found he was suited to city life, and discovered that nothing tasted as good as pearls, if your teeth were sharp enough. Many years later, when Amrit, heeding the divine voice again, had given up his life of worldly pleasure and gone to Xi’en, where, under the name of the Shanti-Joddha, he had started a new religion based on peace and love that was now the official religion of the Xi’en empire, his crown had been laid to rest in the treasure-chamber. Amrit, by all accounts, had lived the rest of his days free of both voices and worries.

  As the centuries passed, the unwaba’s taste for silent, dark places and pearls had worked well for everyone; being all-knowing, he knew that moving house was never fun. And ever since a former Chief Civilian had come down to the treasure-chamber and heard the whispered words, ‘Which year is this? What’s that noise? Oh no! He’s found me!’ many years ago, the all-knowing chameleon had ensured the city’s peace and prosperity, and his own relatively uninterrupted slumber.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Somewhere in the desert of Al-ugobi, the great sand-sea that covered most of western Artaxerxia, a solitary traveler and his camel struggled through a blinding storm. The young man’s name was Hasan. He was sixteen years old, and had set out with his camel to seek his fortune out east, in Amurabad, the Artaxerxian capital. His brother, Ali, had left a year ago, to be an actor. It had been a whole day since the last oasis, the sun had been shining as if it had a personal grudge against him, and Hasan was already thoroughly sick of life in general and sand in particular.

  The great dunes were shifting slowly, and the air was full of hard, biting, blistering sand. As Hasan crouched, he saw a sudden flash as something glimmered golden and was hidden again. Hasan ran to the dune, heedless of the stinging sandstorm, and plunged his hand in.

  The jinn awoke. It was suddenly very hot. Yes, something was deliberately rubbing the walls of its lamp. It yawned. It wondered how long it had slept. Strangely enough, this time it didn’t even remember going to sleep. That was odd. The
last thing it remembered was watching a particularly good belly-dancer in Amurabad. Well, time to get up, it thought.

  Hasan rubbed harder, the sandstorm completely forgotten in his sudden, wild joy. A jinn-lamp! This was the stuff dreams were made of! Everyone said a jinn-lamp hadn’t been seen for hundreds of years! Hasan saw the future. He saw an almond-eyed, veiled princess – why one, a hundred! – gold, fame, scimitars, subtle wines, flowing silk robes, flying carpets, pliant, amazingly beautiful and barely clad belly-dancers surrounding him and pressing ripe grapes into his mouth as music played and he lay back on soft, soft cushions…

  ‘What?’ asked the jinn, rubbing its eyes.

  Hasan looked at it. He’d expected a jolly, fat man with a curly beard and a big turban who would start singing songs about how he would be Hasan’s best friend. The jinn was…well, it didn’t look very friendly, for a start. It was a shape, a large, muscular shape, trailing off into smoke near the mouth of the lamp. Sand blasted into it and gave it an outline, a large, muscular outline. Its eyes glowed a brilliant, blinding white. But Hasan didn’t care what it looked like. He laughed aloud in excitement. Three wishes! What would he wish for?

  ‘I suppose I can’t wish for more wishes,’ he said.

  The jinn got used to the sand. It had been a long time. It noticed Hasan. Good-looking boy, though a bit thin, it thought. Not as good-looking as the little belly-dancer, though. The jinn preferred girls. They were prettier, softer, they smelled good, they fought less.

  They tasted better.

  It was hungry.

  The boy was saying something.

  ‘Wishes?’ asked the jinn. It noticed the camel. Camel bones were good…

  ‘My three wishes!’ said Hasan. ‘You will grant me three wishes, wont you?’

  The jinn thought for a while. ‘Why?’ it asked.

  ‘That’s what jinns do! Don’t you know that? Everyone knows that!’

  Three wishes, thought the jinn. What was he talking about?

  The camel took a look at the jinn. It started to run.